if they are to get their money’s worth out of the deckchairs. But it is only when she catches sight of the hordes of holidaymakers flooding down on to the beach behind her that she nods in agreement and Jack sighs with relief.
Jack puts up the deckchairs and windbreak, while Ruth unpacks the bags. Thus engaged, it is too late by the time they notice Mr and Mrs Sykes to take avoidance measures. Harry and Irene Sykes are, to quote their favourite expression, ‘bang up to date’ as only childless couples in their thirties can ever hope to be. Harry, sporting a pair of black winkle-picker shoes and green drainpipe trousers, sidles up. He has an extravagant quiff that teeters in the wind, and sideburns a good couple of inches longer than is decent for a man his age. Harry is foreman at Alexandria, a mill owned by Foster Brothers, the same company that employs Jack. He and Harry Sykes have known each other since Jack joined the firm but they have rarely, if ever, seen eye to eye. Despite this, Harry Sykes puts down his deckchairs next to Jack and says, ‘Fancy seeing you here, Jack. Mind if we join you?’
‘Of course not, Harry,’ Jack replies, suppressing the urge to bolt. Ruth meanwhile gives the interlopers the briefest of nods, then turns her back and begins to empty her grey tartan shopping bag of towels, sun cream, knitting and this week’s copy of Woman’s Own.
Irene Sykes perches prettily on the edge of the deckchair that Harry has assembled for her with a single flick of his wrist. She puts the white stilettos she has been carrying since she reached the sands under her chair, opens her handbag and pulls out a pink enamelled compact decorated with the silhouette of a black poodle. She checks her lipstick in the mirror first, using a brightly varnished nail to wipe away the inevitable smudges of matching pink lipstick from the corners of her mouth. Snapping the compact smartly shut, she flashes Jack a brilliant smile. In present company Irene may have both youth and beauty on her side, but still she regards Ruth with a careful eye. ‘Hello, Mrs Singleton,’ she ventures. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
‘And how’s little Beth. Getting better now, is she?’ Irene gives the child a look of heartfelt concern. Beth is wearing a blue mohair coat that ends just above her grey ankle socks and her head is wrapped in a yellow scarf.
‘Elizabeth is very well, thank you,’ Ruth replies in a tone designed to stifle any further questions.
‘Poor little mite.’ Mrs Sykes bends down and tickles Beth under her chin. ‘I knew you when you were a tiny baby.’
Beth gives Mrs Sykes her whole attention.
‘Your mum used to bring you to Baby Clinic every Tuesday. You were so good, you never cried. I had to weigh you every week to make sure that you were putting on enough weight and then write everything down in a special file. She was very late walking, wasn’t she, Mrs Singleton?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Ruth replies.
‘Oh, but she was. I recall the doctor and I were very worried about her at one point because she was so far behind the other babies.’ Ruth glares at Irene. ‘But of course you were ill. That’s why you were slow.’
Beth looks disappointed and returns to carving pictures of dogs in the sand.
Six years on and the memory of Irene Sykes writing ‘slow walker’ in the Baby Clinic file can still raise Ruth to fury. Irene Sykes may be a nurse, but she’s no children of her own so what on earth would she know about anything?
‘But you had the sweetest nature, Beth. Like a little angel.’
A lump rises in Irene’s throat. ‘How is she now, Mrs Singleton? I heard at work that she’d had the operation.’
‘She’s very well, thank you.’
‘The physiotherapist told me that you’d cancelled any further visits. I know she was quite concerned.’
‘She doesn’t need any more physiotherapy. I’m sure Miss Franks has other patients who need her attentions more than Elizabeth.’
Irene is doubtful, but the look on Ruth’s face persuades her to let the subject drop. In the ensuing silence Ruth picks up her knitting. ‘And how’s Helen?’ Irene asks, turning to the teenager.
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
It is obvious that further attempts at conversation are a waste of time, so Irene leans back in her deckchair and lazily crosses one immaculately groomed leg over the other, showing off her evenly tanned legs, her white net petticoat and next week’s washing in the process. She raises both arms, arching her slender back against the striped canvas. Her breasts rise against her scoop-necked bodice. Satisfied she has attracted the glance of every man in the vicinity, Irene closes her eyes against the glare of the sun and, smiling, relaxes.
Helen is overjoyed with her copy of the New Musical Express. There’s a big poster of Bobby Darin in this week and a two-page spread. It’s the only reason Helen bought the magazine. She flicks past the other articles (‘Things Elvis Keeps Dark’, ‘Marty Wilde and Bert Weedon – So Much in Common’ and ‘Jerry Keller’s “Here Comes Summer” Hits the Right Note’) and turns to the poster. According to the article Bobby has ‘a flashing personality, golden-brown skin, expressive eyebrows and dazzling white teeth’. The photo is only in black and white, but Helen can tell the description is all true. Bobby is wearing a tight shiny suit and he’s dancing. His left arm is raised while the fingers of his right hand curl round the blunt bulk of the microphone. He must be dancing because Helen can see his legs are bent and one knee is twisted out to reveal his shiny winkle-picker shoes. It’s enough to make Helen feel dizzy. She’s looked in her Collins School Atlas more than once to see where Bobby lives. She knows it’s a long way to America, but when she puts her thumb on Lancashire and her forefinger on New York it isn’t far at all. In her dreams it’s barely the distance of a breath and she’s there in Hollywood, slow-dancing with Bobby. Even now, in broad daylight, she’s irresistibly drawn to his photograph – the expression on his face when he looks directly into her eyes is enough to make her feel light-headed. Eventually she tears her eyes away from the poster and moves on to the columns of small print. Bobby, it says, was brought up in a rough neighbourhood where there were drunken fights and stabbings. Helen’s mouth falls open as she reads that Bobby grew up surrounded by cheats, thieves, drunks, armed Mafia gangs and prostitution (whatever that is) on every corner. The family was very poor, but Bobby says, ‘You could walk in our house and not see any furniture or anything, but love would hit you square in the mouth.’
Helen is deeply moved. It is terrible to think that her idol was brought up in a slum. Helen sometimes comes home from school with a bit of ink on her cuff and her mother always shouts, ‘Take that blouse off this minute. Anybody would think you’d been brought up in a slum.’
Helen’s grandma Catlow lives on Bird Street and her mother says the house is no better than a slum. This is why Helen only ever sees her grandma once a year at Christmas when Mum brings her up on the bus from Bird Street to visit. Still, it’s nice that Bobby has such a close, loving family. The only thing that hits Helen square in the mouth when she walks in after school is the smell of polish and the sound of her mother scrubbing.
Bobby doesn’t think school is up to much. He says, ‘You don’t know people or life through books. You learn by living and doing. You gotta go out in the world.’
Helen couldn’t agree more. Bobby says that when he told his mother he wasn’t going back to school she was disappointed, but she didn’t try to stop him. He told her, ‘Mom, it’s time I got out to see what makes it tick.’ Helen wishes she could leave school and get a job like Connie, but she doubts that her mother will let her. She looks again at the picture of Bobby. She caught sight of him yesterday on the television at the hotel. He was singing his hit song ‘Splish Splash’ followed by his new record, ‘Dream Lover’. Bobby Darin has been Helen’s dream lover ever since the moment she saw his photo on the front of Boyfriend magazine. He’s half Italian and you can tell. He’s got dark wavy hair and a brilliant smile. He’s a great dancer too. Not like the boys at school.
The